Cometh the Hour (The Clifton Chronicles 6)

27

EMMA HADN’T ENTERED the Palace of Westminster since their lordships had decided she was free to marry the man she loved. Giles had invited her to join him for lunch many times, but she just couldn’t face it. She hoped a visit to the Commons would finally exorcise the ghosts of the past and, in any case, she was looking forward to meeting Mrs. Thatcher again.

With the help of a policeman and a messenger, she found her way to the tearoom, where Margaret Thatcher was standing by the door waiting for her.

“Come and join me,” she said, before leading her guest to an empty table. “I’ve already ordered tea as I had a feeling you were the kind of person who wouldn’t be late.”

Margaret, as she insisted on Emma calling her, bombarded her with questions about her thoughts on education, the NHS and even Jacques Delors. When Emma asked Margaret, if Ted Heath were to lose the next election and was forced to resign, whether she would consider standing as party leader, she didn’t hesitate in giving her opinion.

“A woman can never hope to be prime minister of this country,” she said without hesitation. “At least not in my lifetime.”

“Perhaps the Americans will show us the way.”

“It will take the Americans even longer to elect a woman president,” said Thatcher. “They are still at heart a frontier society. There are only fifteen women in Congress, and not even one in the Senate.”

“What about the Labour Party?” said Emma. “Some people are suggesting that Shirley Williams—”

“Not a hope. The unions wouldn’t stand for it. They’d never allow a woman to be their general secretary. No, we elected the first Jewish prime minister, and the first bachelor, so we’ll elect the first woman, but not in my lifetime,” Thatcher repeated.

“But other countries have already chosen women to be their PM.”

“Three of them,” said Thatcher.

“So if you can’t be the fourth, and we do win the next election, what job are you hoping to get?”

“It’s not a question of what I’m hoping to get, it’s what Ted will reluctantly offer me. And remember, Emma, in politics it’s never wise to let anyone know what you want. That’s the quickest way to make enemies and detractors. Just look surprised any time anyone offers you anything.” Emma smiled. “So tell me, what’s your brother Giles up to?”

“He’s been put in charge of the marginal seats campaign, so he spends most of his life trudging up and down the country trying to make sure Harold Wilson is returned to No.10.”

“A brilliant choice. He fought and won Bristol Docklands against the odds again and again, and there are many on our side who would have preferred to see him back in the House rather than that second-rater, Alex Fisher. And if Labour were to win, Giles might well become Leader of the Lords, which would see him back in the Cabinet. Anyway, that’s enough politics. Tell me what’s happening in the real world. I see Barrington’s Shipping had another record year.”

“Yes, but I’m beginning to feel I’m repeating myself. It may not be too long before I’m ready to hand over to my son.”

“Then what will you do? You don’t strike me as the type who’ll take up golf or start attending basket-weaving classes.”

Emma laughed. “No, but I’ve recently been appointed a governor of the Bristol Royal Infirmary.”

“A great hospital, but I’m sure you will already have discovered, unlike my socialist colleagues, that there just isn’t enough money to give every hospital not only what it would like, but even what it needs, with the development of so many new drugs. The biggest problem the health service faces is that we are no longer conveniently dying at the age of seventy, but many more people are living to eighty, ninety, even a hundred. Whoever wins the next election will have to face that problem head on, if they’re not going to saddle future generations with a mountain of debt they will never be able to repay. Perhaps you could help, Emma.”

“How?”

Thatcher lowered her voice. “You may have heard the rumors that if we win, I’ll be offered Health. It would be helpful to have a friend who works at the coalface and not just go on attending endless meetings with experts who have three degrees and no hands-on experience.”

“I’d be delighted to help in any way I can,” said Emma, flattered by the suggestion.

“Thank you,” said Margaret. “And I know it’s asking rather a lot, but it might prove useful in the long term to have an ally on the West Country area Conservative committee.”

A loud, continuous bell began clanging, almost deafening Emma. The door of the tearoom swung open and a man in a black jacket marched in and shouted, “Division!”

“Back to work, I’m afraid,” said Thatcher. “It’s a three-line whip, so I can’t ignore it.”

“What are you voting on?”

“No idea, but one of the whips will guide me into the right corridor. We were told there wouldn’t be any more votes today. This is what’s called an ambush: a vote on an amendment that we thought wasn’t controversial and would go through on the nod. I can’t complain, because if we were in opposition, we’d be doing exactly the same thing. It’s called democracy, but you already know my views on that subject. Let’s keep in touch, Emma. We Somerville girls must stick together.”

Margaret Thatcher stood up and shook hands with Emma before joining the stampede of members who were deserting the tearoom to make sure they reached the division lobbies within eight minutes, otherwise the door would be slammed in their faces.

Emma sank back into her chair, feeling simultaneously exhilarated and exhausted, and wondered if Margaret Thatcher had the same effect on everyone.